


Hold Tight, Let It Wash Me Clean

by IrisCandy



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Fluff and Angst, Gunshot Wounds, Hurt Lydia, Hurt/Comfort, depictions of violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-26
Updated: 2014-04-26
Packaged: 2018-01-20 22:30:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,562
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1528025
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IrisCandy/pseuds/IrisCandy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>His face, his eyes filling with tears of fear, was the last image she remembered before all faded to black. She could only think that if she were to never wake up from this sleep, she was glad she'd forgotten the world in the most loving of arms she could have ever wished for.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hold Tight, Let It Wash Me Clean

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Anon for the prompt that inspired this! (My blog can be found at www.makeoutwithyourposter.tumblr.com, for those who don't know.)

The man before them was very human. So very human, so very unsupernatural that they'd become perplexed when he didn't bear fangs or claws or a green, scaly skin. He stood there with obvious anguish in his eyes, his left arm in bloody tatters and the other hidden behind his back.

Lydia felt the hair rise on her arms and the back of her neck when she saw the way his head twitched to the side and back again, like a man at his breaking point. They all stood under an old steel bridge, a road stretched out in front of them and the man stumbling his way toward them in a slow but determined wobble.

Allison raised her bow warily, pulling back ever so slightly with an arrow firmly in place. She was still as a statue, skin pale and perfect in the navy blue light of twilight, her jaw line hard and sharp. Lydia watched as the lights of the cars speeding across the above bridge flashed across her face, yellow and red and yellow and red.

Lydia stood a little ways to the side of her on the pavement, Scott on her other side bristling with caution and confusion.

"That's him," Lydia breathed, "That's the man who tried to kill me."

"Has to be," Scott said, but his voice was uncertain despite his words. "Whoever it was, I know I clawed up his arm."

"Scott, he's coming closer," Allison said, not taking her eyes off the grisly figure moving down the road.

"We have to kill him. There's something wrong with him, there's- there's something happening to him," Lydia said, her voice quiet but panicked.

The other two stayed silent, pondering what she was saying. She knew despite Allison's cold and concentrated exterior, she didn't want to be the one to kill anyone, no matter if he'd tried to kill her best friend hours before in the dead of night.

"Scott," Lydia said urgently, turning toward him. The man was approaching them, the animalistic glint of his bared teeth became clearer.

Lydia couldn't help but see red around the edges of her vision, feel her heart pumping fire through her veins as she looked at the man. He'd entered her home; a place she'd hoped she could hold on to as solace and a supernatural free zone besides the deformed creatures that haunted her dreams.

But it was no dream when she woke up and his face was hovering over hers, tangles of greasy hair tickling the sides of her face as her scream was cut off from the knife pressed to her throat.  
She'd curled her fists into the mattress, willing herself to sink lower into the bed in the hopes of escaping the blade pressing into the soft skin of her throat.

"Banshee," he'd spat in her face, his voice a gruff and furious sound that she would never forget.

Her eyes had grown wide as she stared into his, two beads of murderous rage glinting in the darkness of her bedroom.

But that word - said like it was a curse he'd put upon his greatest enemy or a burning poison lacing his tongue - was all he could manage before her door burst open and Scott was there, teeth bared and a roar ripping from his throat and causing her to squeeze her eyes shut.

When she had asked Scott how he knew, he'd simply said between heaving breaths, "I protect my pack."

Her thoughts of hatred toward the man for making her feel like a victim and a monster all at once was interrupted by the sound of an engine behind them. Two bright yellow headlights shone in Lydia's eyes as she and the others turned to look at the vehicle, spotting the silhouette of a powder blue jeep amongst the lights.

Stiles had hardly parked the car before he threw himself from the front seat and was running toward them, but the words tearing from his throat were drowned out by the horn of a truck on the bridge above them. Lydia was going to yell back to him before Allison screamed  
"Lydia!"

She was whipping her head back toward the man in time with the crack of a gunshot through the air.

The impact didn't so much as hurt as it did knock the wind out of her and replace her anger with a cold dread. She felt an odd sensation, like her veins freezing over ever so slowly, before her knees buckled and she was headed for the pavement.

Her ears rang. The pain started up, hot and agonizing, the moment she fell into somebody with a vice-like grip under her arms. Tears sprung to her eyes immediately as excruciating tendrils of pain shot through her abdomen and she looked down at the red stain blossoming on her blouse, just below her left ribcage. Whoever held her was lowering her to the ground. Long, pale hands came to rest across her ribs as he held her against him.

Her head fell into his collarbone, and Stiles' face came into view over her. Her mouth was gaping in shock, her breaths quick and panicked.

"Lydia," Stiles said shakily, his voice muffled from the ringing. He moved the hair that was sticking against her lips with gentle hands."Lydia, hey, it's okay-"

Her hand found his sleeve and she gripped it tight, pulling and twisting to keep the pain at bay, but it was already doubling and burning. A hiss escaped her lips and she just barely bit back a scream of pain.

Through her eyes blurry with tears, she saw Scott and Allison taking care of the man who'd tried to kill her twice - and, judging by the numbness that was slowly taking hold of her, perhaps he succeeded the second time.

Stiles squeezed her tighter. "I have to put pressure on it, okay? Just hold on- just hold on-"

He hiked her up a little more, careful with her like she was a broken doll he couldn't afford to lose.

"Okay," she breathed, because she didn't want the shock taking hold of her voice. Her voice was all she had as her body bled out on the pavement.

She leaned the side of her face into his chest as he placed his hands over her wound. If she lifted her chin just a little, she could see his face; the sweat building up across his furrowed brow, his tongue running across his lips in an attempt at concentration, his eyes two pools of thinly suppressed panic.

Lydia trusted him with all of her erratically beating heart.

He pressed down his hands and she didn't look away from his face; she didn't want to see the blood from her body coating his hands. The pressure forced a whimper from her.

"Shh," Stiles said, all at once soothing and urgent. He pushed his cheek against the top of her head. "Shh. Lydia, keep your eyes open."

She nodded a lot slower and a lot subtler than she would have liked. Even as he pushed harder on the bloody wound, the pain was fading. Her body was going to go into shock soon, she knew.

Stiles tried to call for Scott, but his voice caught the first time. He moaned a little against her head, a sound of dread and fear that she knew he wished he didn't let slip.

"Scott!" he tried again.

They'd just finished off with the man. Lydia's vision was blacking out around the edges, but she could see his dead body on the floor, the sickly shine of dark blood on the pavement. Scott swiveled his head toward Stiles while still in a wolf stance, his animal features only just beginning to retreat back into him.

He and Allison ran toward the two of them on the ground. Allison already had a phone pressed to her ear and was speaking calmly but firmly into it, like an officer giving urgent orders. Lydia had the sudden thought of how far her best friend had come and how much she had suffered to be able to act so strong and determined now.

Scott skid to his knees next to the wound, and curled his fingers around her wrist. Immediately, a cool relief flooded through her and exterminated the small traces of pain still lingering in her body.

She tried to snatch her arm away but found she didn't have the energy.

"Don't," she said quietly. "I want-"

I want to feel it, she wished she could say. Words were getting harder to express.

"Don't talk, Lydia," Stiles whispered in her ear. Her eyes were again directed back to his face and it was like looking through a funnel, but she could still see him. She could still see him struggling to keep pressing on her wound, could still see him when he looked right into her eyes and held her gaze.

The look he was giving her was like a nod of encouragement and a reason to keep holding on. She anchored herself to it and didn't look away, not even when she could hardly feel a thing anymore.

"Keep looking at me," he said softly.

Her eyes were sliding shut. She thought she could hear sirens in the distance.

"Hey, hey," he said, letting the panic peak in his voice. "Hey, hold on, Lydia. Don't-don't close your eyes-"

Keep looking at me.

She did.

His face, his eyes filling with tears of fear, was the last image she remembered before all faded to black. She could only think that if she were to never wake up from this sleep, she was glad she'd forgotten the world in the most loving of arms she could have ever wished for.

***

He had a firm grip on her forearm, his other hand spread around her waist and holding her up. She braced herself on the wall and took a breath.

"Five steps," she said to herself. "Just five."

"Piece of cake," Stiles said brightly with a nod.

She looked up at him and felt the warmth of his hand passing through the waistband of her hospital sweats.

She looked ahead, determined. 

With Stiles ducking low and steady next to her, she took a tentative step forward. She felt stiff all over (two weeks in a hospital bed did that to a person) and the tugging sensation of the stitching on her wound caused her to grind her teeth.

She managed to complete the painful step. Her hand had built up with sweat, causing it to slide down the wall. 

"Okay, careful," Stiles said, bending lower and tightening his arm around her. "That was great, Lydia, keep going-" 

They pushed on. Lydia took another two steps, careful not to strain herself. 

"Two more, Lydia, come on," Stiles encouraged. He moved his hand from her forearm to her hand and she entwined her fingers with his, pressing down hard. 

Her side throbbed and her legs were like lead, but she felt the strength of him around her and channeled into it and it propelled her forward. 

She took another four steps before she couldn't go any longer. She stumbled, her hand slipping off the wall. She landed all her weight into him, trying to grip at his sleeves to catch her fall.

Stiles made a startled noise before he grabbed her by the shoulders and turned her toward him, steadying her. "You okay?"

She nodded, her breathing strained. Her knees felt weak as the pain in her side added a thousand weights to her upper body and the lack of proper nutrition in the last two weeks caught up to her.

"Seven steps," Stiles said, shaking his head with a grin. "Always exceeding expectations." 

She gave a small, tired smile before she was overcome with lightheadedness. Her eyelids drooped and her knees weakened without warning. 

"Okay, okay," Stiles said quickly, catching all of her weight and bringing them both toward the ground to lean against the wall. Lydia curled into his side like a child and laid her head on his chest, exhaustion taking its toll. He rubbed a soothing hand down the back of her hospital gown, calming her shaking limbs. 

After she had been shot, Lydia had woken up in the hospital after having undergone surgery and her friends had all been there. They'd sat by her bed for hours on end, a new face in the chair next to her every time she opened her eyes from yet another nap. But Stiles...well, he didn't think he had much more to do then protect the ones he loved. He hovered around her during her recovery for the past two weeks while the others had other business to take care of, asking her what she needed and where she needed it until finally the nurses asked him to go home and sleep. 

Now that she was no longer completely bedridden, Stiles had gotten more worried, hardly trusting her to get up at all. 

She had snapped at him a few times when he became like a bothersome fly, and he retreated in apology because he knew she was strong (he'd told her before), but she understood deep down that it was in the Stilinski gene to make like the motherbird.

It was rather endearing when she thought about it in the dead of night, when he wasn't allowed to be in the room at her side. 

And though there were times where she wished he would leave her be to pretend like she was capable enough to scale buildings in her wounded state, she wasn't foolish enough to truly believe that she could have made those seven steps without him at her side. 

"You did good today," he said softly. "Better than anyone could wish for." 

She nodded against his chest, acknowledging it. 

"Hurts," she said brokenly. She hadn't meant to, not at all. When she would think about it later that night, she'd be embarrassed about showing any sign of weakness at all. 

But Stiles responded immediately and without a hint of judgment, as she knew he would. 

"You want me to call a nurse?" Stiles asked. He sat up a little, trying to get a look at her face. "Lydia, tell me what you need." 

She shut her eyes. "Just...can you stay here?" 

Suddenly he was calming down, realizing that the source of her lethargy was really just the need to nap. He relaxed beneath her and she felt him nod. 

"Yeah, yeah, of course," he said quietly. 

Feeling the slow, heavy fingers of sleep taking hold of her, she threw an arm over his stomach and he rubbed his hand up and down the pale skin. 

"Thank you," she whispered. 

Because she didn't think she'd ever said it before.

He pressed a kiss to the top of her head and she could feel it like a tingling warmth all over and a small, welcome ache in her heart.

She would wake up in her hospital bed again hours later, and a nurse would have taken his place leaving her aching for his company.

It didn't worry her. She knew that even in the most unpredictable and most unpleasant of times, Stiles would return when he could. He always did. 

He always would. 

That was all she could have ever asked for.


End file.
